There are two images,
a moon within reach
yet trapped under snow--
an old woman's threadbare shawl
with peasants furiously working brooms
scraping ice shavings
into howls and husks of frenzy.
Ii
Then the same pond,
this time summer
with fishing nets,
and briefer shawls
pirating light's wanton swoon,
a spyglass hour moon
all bathed in yellow
colour of kerosene
--a rich creamy butter--
goldilocks let out on weekends
her spun, golden tresses
lowered onto the water
like so many little boats
nimbly hopping aboard.
lii
A kerchief folded on a fence
a man wearing an overcoat living there
in white satin swooning
to the pianist's expert touch
down magic chambers
soothing, soothing there
to fold and tear
the pileated moonlit edge
of her skin.